


flying high (highrise hell)

by tcnyrhcdey (stcrkson)



Series: make this house your home [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: April the Trash Dog, College Student Peter Parker, Dead May Parker (Spider-Man), Dissociation, Gen, Orphan Peter Parker, but it's mild i swear, he's doing biomed engineering at nyit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-01 14:59:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16286747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stcrkson/pseuds/tcnyrhcdey
Summary: sure peter’s been losing time, and sure he’s been teetering on the edge of a breakdown for the longest time, but he’s absolutely fine. he’s especially fine in comparison to his new roommate, who has a bucketload of issues and doesn’t need peter’s as well.





	1. EASE

**Author's Note:**

> TWs (will update as the fic updates): Mild Dissociation? possibly?

Peter’s apartment was a mess, dirty clothes thrown everywhere without a second thought, takeout cartons all around, and revision notes on any and every flat surface. He stared down at his arms, grocery bags and a take-home plate from Josie’s. Suddenly struck with the need to clean, _to gain some semblance of better_ , he dropped everything on the counter and began throwing it all out. Before long the room was practically empty, all the clothes thrown into one bag and the trash into another. It looked hollow, it looked like how he felt.

 

_tap, tap, tap_

 

Peter stood, ~~_when did he fall?_ ~~ , and went to the door of his tiny balcony. There sat a dog, one-eyed and mangy. Peter opened the door, if only to tell it to leave. The dog took this as an open invitation to enter his house. The dog then shook out its fur, getting dirty water everywhere.

 

“Hey! Quit it.” Peter’s voice sounded hoarse, unused. It never occurred to him how much he didn’t talk anymore.

 

The dog, looked like a she, looked back at him, bemused but demanding. Peter sighed, a rusty sound, and threw some instant ramen into the microwave.

 

“I don’t have dog food, so this is gonna have to do.” The microwave beeped after three minutes and Peter pulled it out and placed it on the ground, his movements stiff. He then tossed microwave rice in a bowl and threw the bowl into the microwave, watching it spin. He turned suddenly, remembering the cupcake Josie had given him. He opened the box, it was a dark blue - classy, and saw the bright blue icing coating the top of the carry-out plate. He grabbed the cupcake and closed the plate back, putting it into the fridge.

 

He looked back at the rest of the groceries and grabbed the milk, putting it into the fridge as well. He licked the cupcake, going back to stare at the rice. He jumped when it beeped again before resolutely ignoring his small moment of weakness. He reached into the microwave and grabbed the rice bowl with his bare hands, swearing up a blue streak as he walked to his table. The dog came running after him, only ignoring him for how long it took for her to eat the ramen.

 

“Your name is -” _May_ “- April.” April yips, seemingly satisfied with this name choice. Peter nods back and turns to his rice.

 

As he is eating, the phone rings. He only had a landline because the apartment came with one. Peter guessed it was installed by the previous owners, because otherwise it was there out of pity, and Peter was not a charity case. Sure he was twice orphaned and deep in debt and - _pick up the fucking phone, Parker_.

 

It was Josie, simply trying to make sure Peter had gotten home safe. He smiled, warmed at the thought, but this also meant that he would have to speak for more than the few minutes he had estimated. Peter powered through, although he was quickly running out of words to string together. Josie eventually hung up, quickly realizing that Peter was becoming more and more unresponsive. He put the phone back on the hook and saw the dark marks across his hands, obviously from where he picked up the rice bowl. He sighed again, and washed his hands under the faucet, hoping the cold water would solve the issue. If not he would have to go back to the store to buy gauze to wrap around his hands, and his bank account was already beginning to look more and more empty.

 

The cold water made his hands look better, but he knew that as soon as he came out of shock or whatever this was, he would feel all the pain he had gladly missed out on. He lifted his head and saw the blaring red lights of his clock reading 1:56 AM. He wasn’t tired, but he was very tired. He shoved it all back and hunted for clean clothes to wear so he could wash his uniform. He found pajama bottoms and a tank top, which was sufficient enough for what he was going to do.

 

He lifted the bag of trash first and walked down to the dumpster in the alley under his balcony. A man was walking out of it, and for a second Peter thought he saw his left arm glinting in the streetlight, almost like it was metal. His mind flashed with images from the news - the SHIELD/HYDRA mess, the helicarriers crashing into the harbor. Peter, very roughly, shoved all of those pictures into their own box and rolled his eyes, ignoring the tricks his mind was playing on him. He then tossed the bag, hoping he didn’t throw away anything important. He made his way back up the stairs, his joints protesting the entire way.

 

“How old am I, seventy?” He stumbled through his door and stared at the bag of laundry that needed to be done. He realized that the simple interactions of the day had served to drain him so completely, that he couldn't even do his own laundry anymore. It was a sad thought. He simply shook his head and vowed to try again tomorrow. _He always said that, but this time he may actually do it._

 

He toed off his shoes and laid on his couch. It technically wasn’t his, the one that came with his room was in the empty apartment across the hall. Peter refused to lay on a crunchy couch. His hand skittered across the surface of the table, hitting the warm patch where the rice bowl was. He didn’t remember putting it in the sink, but then again he didn’t remember a lot of things. He finally found the remote, flicking it vaguely in the direction of his TV. Peter firmly planted his head into the cushion when it finally started up. April jumped onto the couch with him, placing her cold nose against his back. He jerked vaguely, but not enough to actually dislodge her. And if this was the first time in five months he hadn't cried himself to sleep it was no one’s business but his.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have had no beta besides grammarly and i am exhausted, so i'm sorry if this makes absolutely No Sense

Peter woke to April whining. His eyes opened wide and he pulled himself upright on the couch. His TV was still playing, a low buzz in the silence of his apartment. His electricity bill would look ridiculous if he kept that up. 

 

“April, what’s wrong?” He turned his head to see April pawing at the door. He rose, joints cracking. He really needed to stop sleeping on the couch, it wasn’t good for his bones. He stumbled towards the door and pushed it open. April skidded out the door and down the steps, yipping cheerfully. Peter turned back to see his clock, the readout was 9:36. He shrugged, knowing everyone was out for work. Everyone except him, and maybe Susan in 21B. 

 

He stepped out into the sunlight, using his senses to work out where April had gone. She was standing in a shadow, left leg lifted in the air. Peter went back the way he came. 

 

April eventually returned, leading Peter back up the stairs he had climbed twice in the same twelve hour period. He wandered into his kitchen, steps slow as he put away all his groceries. He opened a box of soup crackers and squatted down to hold one out to April. She took it, and then the whole sleeve of crackers into the hole in his cabinets where his dishwasher should be. He snorted, vaguely amused. 

 

He walked into the living room and turned on his laptop, which he had paired with his phone after he lost it the first time, to be bombarded with emails and texts from teachers and students, with at least 50 of them from Ned. The earliest date was from three days ago. His eyes widen, reading exceptional reviews of work he was sure he hadn’t done. Maybe he was just really tired while working and it didn’t quite register. He nodded, sure that was it. He set about doing work - biology and chemistry readings, self-quizzes on human anatomy, bothering Ned about computer science. 

 

Before long, it was dark, almost pitch black, and Peter had skipped two meals. He looked down at himself, sure that he should be hungry. He took note of it, putting it into the list of Weird Oddities That Probably Mean Something But He Can’t Afford a Doctor’s Visit. There’s an entire Excel spreadsheet due to Ned. Coincidently, he also was the one that kept trying to convince Peter to go to therapy. He refused to acknowledge any correlation between the two events, his self-awareness only went so far. 

 

Peter began banging around in the kitchen, evidently waking up April. She stumbled out of the alcove in the cabinets, bit his ankle, and retreated back again. He continued to move around the kitchen, pulling things out but not exactly cooking. He guessed he was channeling his Aunt’s small town frugality. He quickly began busying himself with the pots and pans, avoiding everything surrounding the name May. 

 

“I’ll be emaciated if I don’t start eating right.” He stared into his refrigerator, stilling all movements for a small eternity as he tried to imagine a meal from various vegetables and tomato sauce. He squinted before opening his pantry, pulling out two boxes of spaghetti noodles. He kicked it shut, breaking them into a bowl. 

 

“This should last until at least next week.” He diced half an onion and cut up some green pepper, putting them into a separate bowl. He easily lost himself in the motions of cooking, humming vaguely under his breath. Time turned into molasses, slowing down and speeding up all at the same time. 

 

He stepped out of the kitchen, jiggling his mouse until his computer screen brightened, displaying the time and date in pastel colors. 12:16. He sighed and for a split second he felt aged, his joints aching and his mind shaking, trembling with knowledge that wasn’t his. Then all of a sudden it was over and he was collapsed on the floor. He stayed there shaking until he heard the dull beeping of his timer. 

 

He crawled towards his kitchen, pulling himself up on the counter. He opened the oven, pulling out his dinner. He pulled a bowl out and placed some in it. He grabbed a fork, sinking into familiar movements, ignoring the world around him. April came out of the kitchen and worked her way into his lap, stealing his spaghetti and growling. He dozed. 

 

He opened his eyes to April kneading his stomach, softly whining again. He rose, expecting her to run to his front door and paw at it. She did not. She instead turned to his balcony door, twitching all over. Peter quirked an eyebrow. He walked over and opened the door, and stepped out onto the balcony. His senses told him to look down. Peter regretted ever listening. 

 

“Patrolling around his building, are you? You know what he is, the last failsafe.” His words held repetition, odd echoes of something else, something  _ Other _ . 

 

“If you were here to use him, you would have said the words by now.” It was another voice, with a vague Brooklyn accent. Its cadence was soothing, familiar. The small peace it granted was quickly wiped away when they started fighting. Peter couldn’t really call it a fight, it was more a curb stomp. There were flashy moves and yet there was no way to ignore the glinting left arm. There was definitely no way to ignore the blood dripping off it when he beat the other person’s face into jelly.  

 

Peter blinked and he had his back to the glass door of his balcony, hyperventilating and nauseous. Then he heard the clanging of the metal arm climbing up the rusted bars like they were a part of an insane playground. 

 

A bony hand reached up from under him, followed quickly by it’s counterpart. Peter flinched. He reached forward, body knowing what the mind had forgotten. A torso pulled itself over the railings, before landing hard on the ruined floor. Peter’s hand brushed the white t-shirt, feeling ribs and not much else. 

  
“I have spaghetti inside if you want any, you look kinda hungry.”  _ Damnit, Parker. _


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> no this isnt three weeks late what are you talking about, this is also v short but i need some set up before i go into Everything Else

****

Steve Rogers considered Tony Stark an agreeable and accommodating man. He even instituted an open door policy with all the Avengers after the Invasion. Steve also knew that Stark was a formidable man when crossed. He didn’t quite expect these truths to cross paths.  

“-but of course, you can't do anything by halves so now I'm drowning in HYDRA files and scandals. Do you even realized how many people you've burned, even SI doesn't have the resources to get all those people out of deep under-” 

“Stark, you’re ranting. We had contingencies…” The words trailed off as Natasha realized that those contingencies were known by the HYDRA agents those undercover were running from. 

“Natasha, Tony’s right. Look, Stark, we’re-” 

“Shut up Capsicle, it’s fine. There’s just too many files and we have to cull them off the internet until we know what can be declassified and presented to the public. JARVIS is trying, but this is the internet, copies were made almost instantly. We’ve gotta get a hold on Legolas and Bruce, we have to present a united front.” Steve’s face furrowed, almost like he had tasted something bitter, but he remained silent. 

Natasha turned to look at him, her question silent but striking. He shook his head, his body sagging forward slightly. It was as if saying it would make it real, would make the last 72 hours that much more draining. It would make the 70 years he spent - he shut off that line of thinking before he started seeing fire again. 

“Stark, me and Rogers are going to go grab something to eat. Want anything?” Natasha spoke almost comically loud, but her eyes were on Steve’s frame. He braced himself for the incoming interrogation, knowing that he had made her suspicious in some way. He just hoped she didn’t notice the minute shivering he was doing, or how his skin was rapidly cooling, almost in preparation for the ice he wasn’t near. 

He heard Tony’s vaguely affirmative noise as he combed through HYDRA files, trying to find out how deep they were into the standing governments. Steve hoped he didn’t see the Winter Soldier files. Steve felt nauseous for hours after simply skimming them. He couldn’t imagine what they would do to someone that was directly -  _ no, innocent until proven guilty, Rogers _ . 

Steve followed Natasha out of the building and into the street, silence hanging between them like a net, trapping any words inside. She made a hard right, Steve going where she was, too busy trying to solidify the lines between present and past to actually notice where they were going. 

He came up for air when he heard the wind chimes of the door opening in front of him. This was the Dumpy Diner. That wasn’t it’s actual name, but the red seats were torn to all hell and the tables were scratched up and stained and it was the safest place Steve had been to in years. The diner meant neutrality, if she was being accusatory they would have went Leo’s down the street. A knot of tension released itself in Steve’s chest, and he released the breath he had unknowingly been holding. 

The red-headed waitress sat them and Steve almost expected her name tag to read Peggy;  _ it didn’t, it read Katie and there was scuff marks on it from where it was washed _ . 

Natasha stared at him as he ordered, probably noting that he hadn’t actually ordered what he had wanted, only the largest word on the menu. Steve swore decision making was becoming harder the longer he was in the future. He should probably tell his SHIELD mandated therapist that, except that he was probably HYDRA and would maybe stab him next time they met. 

He sat tapping out odd rhythms on the table as he awaited the first question. 

“Why are you tapping 3-2-5-5-7-0-3-8 on the table?” Steve almost starts crying. He can’t even remember his own serial number but he can type out Bucky’s in the  _ fucking morse _ . His hands move under the table in jerky patterns, clawing at his thighs as he shoves the past back where it belongs. 

“Old serial number.” His voice is monotone, flat. 

“You and I both know that’s not true.” Her cadence was meant to be soothing but it still had that stilted feel of someone who didn’t know how to be comforting. Steve remained silent, refusing to give an inch. 

“Are you okay?” Steve hunched in further, face blanking much like when he was on the battlefield. Except there was no one to fight, nothing to strain against. It was more stressful than dying.  _ Wait, he wasn’t dead - was he dead?  _

 

_ beep, beep, beep… _

Steve flinched, the noise interrupting his increasingly macabre inner dialogue. 

_ beep, beep, beep… _

He pulled out his phone, to hear Tony’s voice crackle through the speakers. 

“Did you just pick up my phone for me?” 

“Doesn’t matter, I found something you’ll want to hear. Have you heard of the Project: Failsafe?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh shit now theres some actual plot

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to hit me up on  my tumblr


End file.
